


Shed the Past

by glennjaminhow



Category: It's Always Sunny in Philadelphia
Genre: Borderline Personality Disorder, Depression, Gen, Internal Monologue, Mental Health Issues, Mental Instability, Self-Harm, Suicidal Thoughts, Suicide
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-27
Updated: 2018-11-27
Packaged: 2019-08-29 13:41:26
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,940
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16745047
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/glennjaminhow/pseuds/glennjaminhow
Summary: "They blow up like they always do. He tells Mac to go fuck himself. Mac tells him he’s going straight to Hell. He laughs and snorts at the word ‘straight,’ and Mac’s anger is palpable from the speaker. Mac tells him that he’s done, that he’s over him, that he’s going to move on with his life, that he never wants to speak to him again, that he shouldn’t talk to Dee or Charlie or even fucking Frank anymore either, that he should fall off the face of the fucking earth."





	Shed the Past

**Author's Note:**

> This is incredibly dark. Massive trigger warnings!

It’s cold.

He wants to slide out from under this dense suffocation dampening his brain, muting muscles and sending neurons up in flames; it’s all a charade anyway.

It’s cold.

He’s smart enough to know this will never work. He’s incredibly smart, – has a degree from Penn to prove it – but it isn’t enough. It’s never been enough. His degree is as useless as he is, wandering around in Hellhole, North Dakota, working a horribly shitty retail job and drowning himself in the misfortunes he created for himself.

It’s cold.

He isn’t sure how much longer he can handle this. Last week, he was on an upswing so bright and vivid that the blackened euphoria still riddles his bones now. It was the first time he’s felt something other than irrationally numb in weeks, months, fuck, maybe even years. He made chocolate cupcakes with Brian and actually ate one of them; it was sickeningly sweet, but he didn’t throw it up later in the silence of his shitty studio apartment. The kid dumped an entire container of purple sprinkles into the batter, and he wasn’t even remotely aggravated. He and Brian built a snowman, with a carrot nose and plaid scarf of course, and sipped on hot apple cider once they returned inside. Brian, sucking on his thumb, toddled sleepily over to him, curled up on his chest, and closed his eyes, mouth parted against his skin.

It’s cold.

He bundles illusion around him like a quilt. He can live like this. He can function like a normal human adult. Mandy doesn’t seem to think so, but fuck her. Fuck her for calling to check on him as if he’s the two year old and not Brian. Fuck her for suggesting he take some time off work to go back to Philly. Fuck her for thinking he wants anything to do with those traitors. They abandoned him. They hate him. They don’t need him, and he doesn’t need them either. Fuck them. Fuck everyone. Fuck thinking and breathing and blinking because all he ever does is think and breathe and blink, and all it's ever gotten him is nowhere fast.

It’s cold.

He crashes hard and fast and all at once. He’s at work, and the constant beeping as he scans customers’ items grates his ears. There’s so much. It’s too much. He cringes and flinches and tells himself that it’s fine, that he only has a couple hours of his shift left, that a stupid fucking noise shouldn’t bother him in the first place. Only the noise does bother him a lot. He abandons his register mid-transaction and flees to the back with his heart in his throat. He bursts through the door, and, thankfully no one’s taking a smoke break, screams until it turns into sobs. He sinks against the cold wall with tears streaming down his cheeks and an anchor pressed against his heart. He hiccups and runs his hands through his hair and just the brief, slight sound of fingertips scratching his scalp is enough to make him swallow the vomit rising from his gut.

It’s cold.

He goes home early that day, resorting to communicating with his manager Mike through quickly written notes because he will cry if he talks. Sore throat, he says. Tells Mike that his son had strep and that he probably caught it too. Mike hushes him away like he has the plague and tells him to get some rest, which is the exact opposite of what he does. Instead, he crumples on the tiled bathroom floor, hands limp at his sides as he watches blood pool on the fabric of his khakis.

It’s cold.

He wants the fucking earth to crash into the moon so he doesn’t have to deal with this bullshit – his bullshit – anymore. He can’t handle being in his body for another Goddamn second. He wants to hurdle himself at the blazingly brilliant sun. He wants to jump off the balcony of his apartment and let his flesh scatter on the concrete like raindrops. He wants to gut his arms like a pumpkin, picking and plucking and poking his arteries and veins until there’s nothing left but a hollow shell.

It’s cold.

He and Mandy get into a fight the next day. He’s late to watch Brian, which means Mandy’s ten fucking minutes late for work. Whoop-de-fucking-doo. He doesn’t fucking care. He screams at her until his face is cherry red. He can feel himself teetering off the edge. He says a lot of shit he can’t remember later on, but it’s bullshit, and this is bullshit, and how dare she attack him like that in front of his kid? He doesn’t lay a finger on her, even though he wants to slit her throat, pummel her face into a pulp, watch the life drain from her body like a sponge drying in sunlight. Instead, when Mandy leaves, pissed beyond belief but still somehow never fully losing her cool with him, he locks himself in the spare bedroom after planting Brian in front of the TV. He sits on the edge of the bed, arms wrapped around himself and rocking back and forth back and forth back and forth to the shrill sounds of Paw Patrol and a two year old’s shrieking laughter.

It’s cold.

He apologizes once Mandy gets home. She forgives him. Part of him, even after over 18 months of living here, being in her presence so often, urges to tell her about the issues he faces. Usually, he ignores the symptoms and destroys himself in the privacy of his own apartment, but he wonders what it would be like to have an ally again. Someone who understood his fits of rage and numbness jags and suicidal tendencies. Someone who could piece together the puzzles of his broken life and help mend him, mold him, into someone new, even if only for a day.

It’s cold.

He doesn’t say anything because he never says anything. He kisses Brian on the cheek and says sorry again before he goes to work. Mike has him work the floor for once, so he gets a break from the monotony of small talk and sweaty, damp money and ‘if it doesn’t scan it’s free’ speeches. His shift goes by so smoothly he’s positive he’s living someone else’s life. He thinks he’s on an upswing again until his phone vibrates. He pulls it out of his pocket at his locker, thinking it’s just Mandy confirming he’ll be over at eight AM.

It’s cold.

He doesn’t expect Mac’s name to light up on his screen. It’s a phone call. He lets it go to voicemail, throwing on his coat and rushing out to his truck. He sits, lets the numbness shift into anger then the anger slip into rage. How dare he call him after all this time? How the fuck does he have the audacity, the nerve, to suddenly reach out, as if Mac never told him to fuck off in the first place? He left him alone. He left everyone alone because Mac shouted that it would be best that way, and, for whatever fucking reason, he believed him.

It’s cold.

He clenches his jaw so hard he nearly breaks his teeth. He remembers leaving Philly last March, cutting off ties with Mac after only four days of him being gone. Mac is pissed at him for ‘abandoning him,’ but how the fuck is that his fault? He doesn’t want to be a deadbeat dad like Frank. He doesn’t want Brian to grow up not knowing who his father is and resenting the world. He tries to reason with Mac. He isn’t calm about it, but he tries. They blow up like they always do. He tells Mac to go fuck himself. Mac tells him he’s going straight to Hell. He laughs and snorts at the word ‘straight,’ and Mac’s anger is palpable from the speaker. Mac tells him that he’s done, that he’s over him, that he’s going to move on with his life, that he never wants to speak to him again, that he shouldn’t talk to Dee or Charlie or even fucking Frank anymore either, that he should fall off the face of the fucking earth.

It’s cold.

He does. He glues himself together with fuck ups, alcohol, copious amounts of self-destruction, his son, and work. He mashes himself into a tiny, caged in corner of his mind, only letting himself out to explore when no one ever has a chance of looking. He doesn’t talk unless he needs to. He doesn’t eat or drink water or sleep unless it’s necessary, which, thankfully, isn’t often. He doesn’t explore or bang or plow or lay chum all over North Dakota, even though he totally could. He doesn’t branch away from what he already knows.

It’s cold.

He stares out into the bleak wilderness, darkened with December snow. A cigarette dangles from his lips. He inhales the tobacco and lets it soak into his bones like a wet blanket. He should go home. It’s almost six, and his shift at the department store starts at seven, and he needs to shower. He’s about ready to hop off the hood of his truck when his phone buzzes. It’s Mac.

It’s cold.

He stares at the three words of Mac’s text message for an eternity, until he’s ancient and old and feels like a dinosaur; Brian loves dinosaurs. The words don’t make sense. They mean nothing. How could they ever mean anything? Mac isn’t his friend. Mac isn’t anything to him anymore. Hasn’t been in almost two years.

It’s cold.

He chucks his phone at the tree.

It’s cold.

The night hurts so bad that it crawls into his chest and doesn’t let go.

It’s cold.

His arms itch, and his skin shakes, and he wants to go home.

It’s cold.

He wants to go home.

It’s cold.

He wants to tear his skin off and bury it underground until springtime comes.

It’s cold.

The pain rips at his chest and strangles his lungs, and he can’t breathe from crying.

It’s cold.

Mac taught him how to love, even if it was brief and fleeting.

It’s cold.

The sky is black, and the stars are far away, and he wants to be held.

It’s cold.

He knows he doesn’t deserve it.

It’s cold.

He is broken and shattered and torn and tattered, and Mac will never love him again.

It’s cold.

He doesn’t blame him. He doesn’t blame Mac for hating him. He hates himself too.

It’s cold.

Mac’s text echoes through his mind, bouncing around his brain at lightning speed. Tears pour from his poor body. He lets the heartbreak, the sorrow, settle in, but only for a minute. There’s no time for that.

It’s cold.

He takes off his coat. Snowy wind pelts his exposed skin. He rolls his shirtsleeves up past his elbows.

It’s cold.

He takes out his pocketknife. He slashes open his arms like he’s writing with a ballpoint pen, carving his pathetic story from A to Z on broken skin.

It’s cold.

Unshed tears and stale memories like a ship in a bottle echo through his ears.

It’s cold.

“I’m sorry,” he whispers.

It’s cold.

They’re here together, comforting each other beneath freshly fallen snow and the glow of bright stars. He runs his fingers through fluffy, gel free hair and peppers kisses on soft skin where he can reach.

It’s cold.

Later on, when the icy snow clings to the cracked pavement, he sheds his skin and buries himself until springtime comes.


End file.
